


Motorcycle Nights

by TheModernChromatic



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Desert, M/M, Motorcycles, POV First Person, Road Trips, Smoking, Smut, Underage Drinking, eruere - Freeform, eruren - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-22
Updated: 2014-01-22
Packaged: 2018-01-09 14:52:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,208
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1147294
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheModernChromatic/pseuds/TheModernChromatic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Eren runs away from home and spends his days with a biker he meets on the road. </p><p>For Rovy, as always, because she drew this <a href="http://rovescio.tumblr.com/post/72208553697/some-doodles-of-that-eruren-au-i-couldnt-stop">thing</a></p>
            </blockquote>





	Motorcycle Nights

The shitty truth about life that no one has the balls to tell you when you're a coddled little kid is that it sucks. For everyone. The more you realize this, the more self-aware you become, the easier it gets to deal with the shit. Kind of. But the curse of sentience is the desire to be understood, so you start looking for people who get that life is shitty too. That's what I like about Erwin. He gets me.

We met...aw, what does it matter. I think we met at a truck stop. Or a diner. That's about the only places I've been since I ran off. Wherever I was, I was moping over some soda or something, trying to gauge whether or not the cashier would buy the whole 'I'm actually twenty-one I just forgot my ID' spiel when he walked in. I could tell right away this guy was a jackpot. And not just because he was hot. Because he was definitely hot. But he was also the kind of guy who would almost undoubtedly buy me a six pack if I offered to share. And he did.

Seventeen, he told me, was far too young to be out on my own. That was my big 'oops'. He never did tell me how old he was. He asked me how old I was when I asked him to buy me beer and I told him. Normally I gave guys the side-eye and just said 'old but not old enough' or something snotty like that, but Erwin got to me. He gets me.

Somehow we found our way to a cheap motel, me mounted on the back of his harley en route, and we cracked open the beer. He bought two six packs. I know a jackpot when I see one. Anyway, we had enough between us to wake up feeling shittier than normal and rather naked in the same bed. I don't remember it, but I like to imagine that he at least let me take off those leather pants.

He figured me out in a second. Ratty kid, with nothing but an over-stuffed backpack to carry, worn-out Chuck Taylor's, and a debit card that a distant, concerned mother kept from zeroing out in hopes I'd return. When I first ran into him, he had a patch over one eye, came in smelling like grease and tobacco, and only paid in twenties and hundreds. I think I told him something about carrying cash like that was asking to be robbed but he laughed and told me that anyone who wanted to try was welcome to. He's not someone you mess with, eyepatch or no.

I straddled his harley by day and his hips by night for about a week before he asked me for his name. I don't think it occurred to either of us until he was trying to get my attention for something and the only thing he came up with was 'hey, you'. Of course, he dragged it out of me before I got him to say anything. He mulled it over for a second, and I pointed out my specific spelling with my usual quip--'with an 'e,' like the girl's version, but the 'i' is also an 'e''--and he'd grinned and told me if I added a 'w' I could get close to his name. He let me say 'weren' for a few minutes while he laughed his ass off until he clarified where it went. After that, we didn't get drunk to have sex anymore. At least, not always.

Whenever he took me, any way he wanted, he called me by my name. Sometimes it was a soft purr, lilting off his tongue and raising goosebumps. Other times, it was a low growl and if he had his stomach pressed to my back, I could feel it rumble deep within his core. If I could pick one thing to hear for the rest of my life, it would be the ways he said my name. Or just he sounds he made in bed in general. They fell into the same extremes: soft and breathy, and low and growling. He didn't vocalize anything beyond my name. If he wanted me to move, he flipped me over and moved me himself. On occasion, he groaned, but never whined, and if he let me take control I could sometimes coax a hiss out of his clenched teeth. Me, I was all over the place. I did whatever made him say my name.

Until he knew my name, he didn't say much to me. He simply took me places, bought me things, and fucked me. And that was good enough for me. As far as I was concerned, it was the best anyone's ever treated me. I call 'em as I see 'em. He gets me.

When he got around to talking, it was usually when we were high. I don't know if it actually made sense, but to me he was a genius. He talked about everything impersonal and yet I'd never felt like I knew someone better. He talked about God like they played golf on the weekends. And like he hated his guts. He talked about politics like it was the weather, and weather like it was a political sex scandal. At one point, he gave me an entire rundown on the domestication of cats. Always, after a point he got tired of talking and he'd grab me and kiss me as deep as he could, then strip me down and take me.

It was times like those that made me sure I'd never want anything else. I could taste him, more than just the smoke on his lips or the smell of leather or cologne, but him. Though that was only the first kiss, before the following ones broke my concentration and his hands found their way into my jeans. But, God I swear nothing was better than that first taste.

The beginning was a haze of nothingness and everything. That's probably why I don't remember anything. It was either too much or not enough. We spent our days out in the open air, the flat, empty Arizona deserts calling out to us from the back of his leather seat as it heated in the sun. I don't even know where we were driving, but we were. I don't think we got very far in that first week but when we got there, we knew. It went through Arizona, past the casinos of New Mexico, and into the heart of Texas, where we finally saw some hills for once. It didn't change how empty everything was. For once, I think I was the only thing that wasn't.

We made it there and we knew, we knew so well that we didn't even bother renting a room anywhere--not that there were any rooms to rent. It was big and open, and the sky had more stars in it than anyone could possibly imagine. We just laid there staring at them on our bedrolls until he turned to me.

"Eren, I want you to count the stars." He told me.

"I can't. Look how many there are."

"Good." And when I'd given him a confused look he laughed at me, a rare and beautiful thing. "Trying to count the stars is about as easy as trying to describe how I feel about you."

He didn't clarify anymore. He curled me close to him and gave me that fantastic first kiss of the night where I could taste the starlight and sadness mingling with confusion and a bubble of joy. His lips cared for mine, caressed them, then they moved along my jaw, found my ear and then my neck. It'd been a few days since he shaved and the beginnings of a beard scratched at my skin which had yet to come up with anything of the like. But from there his kisses kept on, pausing only to remove my shirt while I rolled my hips into his, feeling him harden with me, with every roll.

Whenever I pushed him around, it was because he let me. He let me push him over then, tasting like starlight and sadness, and let me grind my hips onto his while he threw his head back and let his eyes drift closed. He let me unbutton his shirt, pull his arms out of the sleeves and run my hands over the smooth, tanned skin, interrupted by the occasional scar. I gave his scars special attention. They got my kisses, the most of my touches. I pressed my lips to them and hummed while using my hips to keep his arousal entertained. He knew when I needed to do things like that, to just sit on top and take control. He gets me.

His skin felt even better between my teeth in sharp nips and nibbles. If I bit too hard, he'd flinch and offer me a finger instead, and when I sucked on it to apologize, he kept his eyes locked on mine, but I could feel his dick underneath me, twitching and begging to take its place. I mercied him and let him up to take his pants off, though he was insistent on having me take his belt off with my teeth and he was left in his boxers while I stood at attention in the open air, letting him tease me.

He liked to sit on his knees and bring me close, his hands working over my ass and up and down my thighs. He'd nuzzle them, kissing and nipping until I whimpered because the throbbing would get so bad I ached for him. He always did that until I whined, then he'd center his kisses and go down from my navel until he had me in his mouth. He'd start snail's pace, still teasing me and holding my hips to keep from bucking forward, but then he'd go faster, suck harder and I could see stars whether or not my eyes were open and looking at the sky. When he'd had enough, when he got me to the very edge, he'd stop and go back to kissing my thighs until the pain got to me and I reached for myself.

That was probably his favorite part. He grabbed my hands and tucked them behind me, then slicked up his fingers and worked them inside until I was ready for him, carefully avoiding a particular spot. That was for him and him alone. No matter how long his fingers kept it up, he couldn't prevent the initial stretch that always caused me to cry out. But then he'd be there, bent over me, whispering.

_Eren, Eren._

When he moved, he was sure to hit the spot he avoided with his fingers, prompting more of my own moans. We were a chorus, my keens and cries while he was there, breathing, growling.

_Eren._

Much like with his mouth, he started out slow, just slow enough for me to enjoy it, but still too slow to do any damage. That, I think, was less teasing and more courtesy. I could feel him though. The more he moved, the less control he had over himself until he moved with a rather reckless abandon and his breathy calling of my name grew into its deeper growl. I never looked behind me, but I knew his eyes were closed, my cheek to the ground as he held my wrists. That night under the stars, even though he'd pushed me to the edge, I'd managed to last until he got too close himself and he took his other hand off my wrist to throw the balance off and stroke me. Between him behind me and his hand working over my shaft, my body caved into the most vicious climax I've ever known. He followed after, unable to last through my body contracting in waves. When he did, again, my name.

_Eren!_

It was warm enough for us to lay together under the stars. He always smelled different afterwards, but not in any unpleasant way. I buried my nose in his chest, breathing him in while he murmured about stars until we fell asleep there.

That was it. Our summer. I could say that now, we are here, on the back of his metal horse, riding out the heat on black leather, my arms tight around his waist. But things are what they are. You are where your mind is, I say. Though I also say that life's pretty much shit. I can feel him under my fingertips, a being of muscle and thoughtfulness, with wind-tossed blond hair that the sun has conditioned into being noticeably lighter on top than on the sides. I can smell his sunkissed skin. I can taste him in every first kiss before the entire wave that was him washed over me. And I know he's there too, feeling my hands on his body, nibbling on my fingertips. I know he's burying his nose in my hair and laughing softly to himself. I know he's there thinking that life is shitty. That's why I like him, Erwin. He gets me.


End file.
